


Songbird, Sing Me a Tune

by yeoubi



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: M/M, Tumblr Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-08
Updated: 2015-05-08
Packaged: 2018-03-29 13:35:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3898216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeoubi/pseuds/yeoubi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kyungsoo is a street performer AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Songbird, Sing Me a Tune

**Author's Note:**

> part of the "getting rid of my tumblr fic gallery so im reposting my shit here" series. ^^

He’s learned not to look at the crowd, even as it slows to run shrewd eyes over his schoolboy haircut, his thin discount store jeans, down to his threadbare sneakers. The people will wonder aloud if he’s an idol, scoff that he can’t be because he’s too short, too young,  _oh but his voice._

Then if they find that they pity him enough, they’ll reach into their pockets.

Kyungsoo sounds bitter, doesn’t he? He’s not, really, just tired, and it’s easier to rail against these strangers for his life than to wonder, near dawn after he stumbles home from his part-time job at the liquor store to catch a couple hours of sleep before school, if he’s being punished for something he might have done in another life.

Singing is comforting because he doesn’t have to think about anything but the lyrics and the beat and keeping in tune. No thoughts of grocery bills or rent, of schoolwork or prescription fees, or his mother saying  _thank you, honey, you’re such a **good boy**_  when her eyes beg _please keep being a good boy, I can’t do this alone._

He usually sings ballads because they suit his voice, low, soft and soulful, and English songs are a crowd favorite since his pronunciation has always been better than average. He keeps the money bucket about five feet in front of him, gazes at people’s feet or above their heads, and glances up only briefly to flash a smile when someone drops money into it.

They don’t like it when he watches them; people want a performance and not a connection. They don’t want to be reminded that he sees them as clearly as they do him, or that they’re as part of the performance as he is. 

It’s when Kyungsoo is crooning through another American song, _essential yet appealed, carry all your thoughts across an open field,_  that someone pauses at his bucket (black high tops, bronze ankles) and doesn’t leave. Kyungsoo nearly cracks in his chorus, because when he peeks up it’s a boy his age and he’s staring a  _hole_  into Kyungsoo’s face.

Kyungsoo fumbles the next line, his tongue gone slow, and just barely manages to pull himself together to roll into the crescendo,  _they’re not the only ones, who cry when they see you—_

_You said…_

Kyungsoo’s breaks into the chorus watching Black High Tops’ feet, and then he closes his eyes and focuses on how the notes vibrate out his throat. Distantly, the night crowd slows down and softens. They’re watching, but they can’t catch him. Kyungsoo is in his element.

—a _nd youuuu don’t even care. Oh yeahhhh. We said—_

When his eyes crack open, he sees a the tip of a black beanie. Black High Tops is tall. Black High Tops is also still staring at him.

There’s a reason Kyungsoo likes this song though. The chorus almost takes up the entire song, and he drags out his throat until the cold city air scrapes it raw.

_I think I’ll start it over, where no one knows my name…Oh yeah I think I’ll go to Boston—_

Descend, return. Kyungsoo switches the mic to his other hand, taps out the piano notes with his foot. Waits for the crash of the drums and when it comes, inevitably, gloriously, he lets it sweep him away.

_Where no one knows my naaaaaame!_

He lets himself wail because this is not calm song. This is a declaration, a rage against life. Against fate.

_No one knows my naaaaaaame!_

The way his boss at the liquor store taps Kyungsoo’s cheek, the threat hiding under his thin smile.

_My naaaaaame!_

The pills over the counter, carefully laid out for each day of the week, little soldiers.

_No one knows my naaaaaame!_

His mother’s wet cheeks. His father’s broad back as he walks away. His friends—where are they? Gone.

_Myyyyy—_

Kyungsoo is alone in this crowd of people, and he believes this so strongly that when he opens his eyes, he freezes to find Black High Tops still there, five feet away, almost cradling the bucket between his shoes.  

_—knows my name._

Caught. Kyungsoo can’t look away, and Black High Tops doesn’t smile exactly but his eyes curve.

The song ends. A couple people watching shift around and then leave, morphing back into the crowds around them.

“You’re blocking my bucket,” Kyungsoo says, for lack of anything better to say.

“Oh sorry.” Kyungsoo gets a surprisingly sweet grin, just a flash of teeth really, but the effect is heady.

Black High Tops looks like a model with his long limbs and high cheekbones. But then Kyungsoo notices the collar of his shirt under the large T-shirt thrown over it and blanches when he realizes why the color is familiar.

Black High Tops goes to his school. Kyungsoo packs up as quickly as he can.

“You sang really well,” Black High Tops says as he helpfully hands Kyungsoo his money bucket and watches him tuck it under his arm. “Your English accent was spot on.”

“American, the artist is American,” Kyungsoo replies automatically and inwardly cringes.

Black High Tops chuckles, his low voice skating on air. “Right. But you’re good enough to tutor me. My pronunciation sucks. My English teacher gave up on me after the last semester.”

“Thanks.” Kyungsoo gives a short jerky nod, a parody of a bow, and backs up with his possessions clutched to him like precious treasure. “Have a good night.”

To his sinking disappointment, Black High Tops follows easily.

“You’re going home? Here.” He plucks away Kyungsoo’s backpack with the cheap radio inside it and ignoring Kyungsoo’s protests, throws it over his own shoulder like it belongs to him.

“Give it back,” Kyungsoo demands, holding out his hand, and when the boy refuses, Kyungsoo slaps his shoulder before he remembers who he’s talking to.

Their eyes widen at the same time. Black High Tops clutches his shoulder and says plaintively, “Why’d you hit so hard?”

“You’ll live,” says Kyungsoo numbly, looking at his own hand like it betrayed him.

Kyungsoo somehow ends being walked six blocks away to his apartment complex, and then he has to shoo the taller boy away before any of his neighbors spot him. The last thing Kyungsoo needs is more gossip material for his nosy neighbors to chew on.

Kyungsoo is on edge for the next few days, wondering if Black High Tops reported him for underage employment. Every time his teacher calls his name he half expects to be sent to the principal’s office to be expelled. Only when the week ends without any incident does Kyungsoo feel safe enough to hit the streets again.

He performs three nights in a row to make up for the time he missed, and on the third night, Black High Tops appears before him again.

Kyungsoo gives him a resigned look, which clashes with the upbeat mood of the song he’s singing. Black High Tops shrugs off his backpack like he’s here to stay.

Kyungsoo is planning to pretend Black High Tops doesn’t exist, but then to his horror, the boy bobs his head, lifts onto the tips of his namesake shoes and starts  _dancing_.  

They’re just simple movements in his bubble of space, but they’re connected so fluidly it’s obvious he knows what he’s doing. The crowd moves back to give him space and continues its flow around him, unimpeded. Kyungsoo might as well be alone with Black High Tops, save for a few high school girls that stop to watch the scene unfold.

_—fine so fine. Oh girl, I’m gonna show you when you’re mine oh mine._

Black High Tops looks up and matches his gaze just as he hits the chorus again, and spreads his hands out on Kyungsoo’s _treasure!_  Kyungsoo’s eyes pop when he points straight at him for just a moment, _that is what you are!_

_Honey you’re my golden star._

Kyungsoo stares, but the boy just keeps dancing, a secret grin raising his lips. He tries not to read to much into it, but more pointing happens when he sings the next chorus, every croon of  _treasure!_ accompanied by some kind of gesture towards Kyungsoo, and by the time they finish Kyungsoo’s ears are burning and their small audience is chattering excitedly among themselves.

Black High Tops is just as red, although it might be more from exertion than anything else. He’s breathing unsteadily as he watches Kyungsoo set the tape to another song.

“Are you going to dance like that to all my songs?” Kyungsoo asks in a tone that says  _ **please don’t.**_

Black High Tops shakes his bangs out of his face and wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. “Why, you didn’t like it?” he asks in reply.

“Was I supposed to?” Kyungsoo hedges.

Black High Tops gives him a quirk of the lips. “I’ll try to keep up.”

Kyungsoo sighs, but plays the song.

He sings. Black High Tops dances. An hour passes, and then another, and when they finish the moon is bright and the night crowd is dwindling down to bar hoppers and clubbers, who are usually too drunk to tip well.

“No need to walk me back,” Kyungsoo says as he carefully slides his radio into his backpack and adjusts the straps. “You should start heading home. You have school tomorrow.”

“You mean  _we_  have school tomorrow.”

Kyungsoo slips, he gulps reflexively, and hurriedly straightens his face before he stands up. “Yeah, we have school tomorrow, so you should go home before your parents catch you out this late.”

Black High Tops folds his arms. “Don’t your parents care you’re out this late?”

"No,” says Kyungsoo, and starts walking as Black High Tops fumbles for his own backpack.  

“What does that mean? Do you live alone?” Black High Tops jumps a little ahead to walk facing Kyungsoo.

“What does it matter to you?” Kyungsoo counters.

“You work almost every night of the week, but you don’t look like you’re saving up to buy the latest cellphone model. I thought you might be an orphan.” Black High Tops’ tone is light, but his eyes are anything but and Kyungsoo blinks.

“No need to look at me like that. I’m not an orphan.” Kyungsoo hefts his backpack and the radio slaps his back like an old friend. “I’m just poor.”

“Oh.”

Kyungsoo smiles at the ground and doesn’t bother to hide its bitter edge. “Lose some of the mystique for you?”

“No,” says Black High Tops simply. Kyungsoo doesn’t believe him, not until he continues with, “I like you either way, poor, orphan or whatever.”

Boys don’t just say they like other boys. Kyungsoo almost trips on air.

Black High Tops follows him home like the last time and leaves Kyungsoo standing outside the apartment complex to watch him walk away and disappear into the shadows like a creature of the night.

The next time Kyungsoo sees him is two nights later, and then the weekend after that, the first day of the week after that, and on and on until he gets used to seeing the boy’s black shoes nudge into his line of sight or having that thick head of hair pop out from the crowd.

Kyungsoo gets used to it, and him, and somewhere inside Kyungsoo thinks that this is just another part of his fate, as inescapable as everything else in his life.

Then one day, he’s rushing out of class for his part-time job at the liquor store when he knocks into another student who grabs him by the shoulders, and when he looks up it’s into the eyes of Black High Tops.

Black High Tops blinks slowly, and Kyungsoo is so close he imagines he can feel the sweep of his eyelashes. “Hi,” greets Black High Tops.

“Hi,” chokes Kyungsoo and takes a rattly much needed breath of air. He didn’t realize he was holding it.

“I’m…,” Black High Tops looks conflicted and then from behind him someone yells, “Jongin, come on! The game is starting!”

“Just go ahead first!” Black High Tops, no,  _Jongin_  yells back.

“I have to go to work,” Kyungsoo blurts and hastily pushes out of the other boy’s hold.

Black High Tops is real. He’s warm and firm, his brown hair has sun-bleached highlights in it and his eyes are much softer and younger outside the fluorescent glare of city lights. Kyungsoo can’t deal with this right now.

“Wait, Kyungsoo, wait,” Jongin says, grabbing his arm even as his friend calls him again.

“I have to go to work,” Kyungsoo repeats, though something inside him is breaking apart slow and painful. Jongin knows his name. How much does he know about him?

Jongin looks frustrated. “I know, it’s just that…you look disappointed. I didn’t mean for you to find out like this.”

“I knew you went to the same school,” Kyungsoo says and watches Jongin’s eyebrows jump up.

“You did? Oh, then that’s good. That’s okay, isn’t it?” Jongin still looks a little hurt though, peeking at Kyungsoo under his lashes. “So why do you look so disappointed?”

Kyungsoo doesn’t know how to explain that Black High Tops belongs to city lights and song. Jongin is almost a completely different animal, standing here covered in sunlight sifted through the hallway windows. Kyungsoo has a wild thought to touch Jongin’s cheek to check if it’s as smooth as it looks.

It’s irrational, but Kyungsoo feels like he’s lost something.

“I’m not disappointed. I’m just…,” Kyungsoo searches for the right word. “I’m surprised. That’s all.”

“I can still come see you perform right? This doesn’t change anything,” Jongin says.

“Right, it doesn’t.” But something must be off about his expression because Jongin makes a dissatisfied noise.

Jongin quickly glances around, and Kyungsoo just now notices that the hallway has mostly cleared except for a few stragglers at the other end. He feels a spike of panic as he realizes he’s going to be late for work, but before he can turn to start running, Jongin darts in, startling him into stillness.

Warmth grazes his mouth and Kyungsoo instinctively jerks back. Quick on his heels, Jongin follows and Kyungsoo’s gasp of  _What?_  is lost into firm lips like the press of a peach.

The kiss lasts at most two seconds, and when they break apart the taller boy hovers above him. Kyungsoo’s heart is pounding in his ears, but to his astonishment, when he looks up, Jongin is the one that looks terrified.

“You still looked so disappointed,” the dancer explains in a rush. He shrugs miserably. “I don’t blame you. I’m not cool or mysterious. I stole some of those clothes from my cousin. And I copied all those dance moves from videos I found online, and I had a hyung teach me how to do that twirly trick with the snapback—” Jongin cuts himself off and gives Kyungsoo a helpless look like he knows he’s digging himself deeper but can’t stop.

Kyungsoo can’t help it. He starts laughing.

Jongin looks torn between relief and outrage. “Don’t laugh! This isn’t funny!”

“Yes  _hahaha._ Yes, it is,” Kyungsoo manages between laughs, light with his own relief. He sees it now.

Black High Tops was a fleeting dream, he never truly belonged to Kyungsoo. Jongin however is right here. He’s real, and solid, and offering him everything that Black High Tops did and more. Kyungsoo hasn’t lost anything. He’s not going to be left alone. 

"Stop laughing at me! I’m going to leave if you’re just going to make fun of me,” Jongin threatens.

Kyungsoo reaches up to press their lips together just once and rocks back on his heels, straight-faced except for the laughing light in his eyes and the blush returning to his ears.

Jongin stares, and he looks so dumbfounded that Kyungsoo has to bite his lip to keep from laughing again.

“Walk me to work and help me explain to my boss why I came in late,” Kyungsoo says, and when Jongin doesn’t move, Kyungsoo grabs his hand to gently pull the taller boy along. 

Later Kyungsoo has to chase Jongin out because he keeps interfering at the store, but he doesn’t regret a thing. He’s never had so much fun in his life.


End file.
